Lavender's Blue (McHanzo)
by ashiiai
Summary: When Jesse McCree gets transferred for evaluation from a prison farm to a mental institution, he assumes it will be a less restrictive environment. But the martinet Nurse O'Deorain runs the psychiatric ward with an iron fist, keeping her patients cowed through abuse, medication and electroconvulsive therapy. To complicate matters, Jesse falls for fellow patient, Hanzo Shimada.


Lavender's Blue

* * *

_Lavender blue and Rosemary green,__  
__When I am king you shall be queen;__  
__Call up my maids at four o'clock,__  
__Some to the __wheel__ and some to the __rock__;__  
__Some to make hay and some to shear __corn__,__  
__And you and I will keep the bed warm_

* * *

_"__Mr. McCree," _the man said, particularly exasperated.

McCree simply leaned back in his chair, squinted his eyes at the burly, bronze-skinned man across the desk, and allowed him to continue.

"We'll give it two weeks. And if, at the end of those two weeks, you are found to be mentally stable, you'll be immediately removed from the facility and put up somewhere more.. Appropriate."

"So.. Prison?" McCree inquired, although he already knew the answer. He didn't have to be watching to see the other man nod solemnly.

He noted the golden name plate adorning the aforementioned desk; Gabriel Reyes. McCree's eyes followed the cursive script over and over, committing the name to memory. He had always been good with names - not so much faces - and he couldn't stand when somebody forgot his. Be it Joel or James, nothing quite rubbed Jesse McCree the same way. Then again, what kind of name was Jesse McCree for a cowboy anyway?

He was indeed a cowboy of sorts, or he would be, had he not been stripped of all of his attire, belongings and anything that would present him as such. His leather boots had been replaced with white, non-slip shoes, and his clothing a matching white top and bottom made from something that made his skin itch ever so slightly. He was not allowed any kind of hat. It was standard uniform, he'd been told. It was safer that way. But uniforms were just one of many changes Jesse was about to face. After being stripped of any sign of individuality, his belongings stuffed into a plastic bag and taken away, he was ushered into a small office of sorts where he was currently being interviewed. He thought of it more as an interrogation. Mr. Reyes considered it similarly. He was not keen on Jesse McCree; something about the younger man was both cryptic and off-putting, and he didn't for a moment believe that Jesse was anything short of mentally sound. But somehow he had wormed his way into an insanity plea and there they were, in Gabriel Reyes' office, signing away the last of Jesse's rights before he would be officially admitted into the Overwatch Sanatorium.

"Right, prison," Mr. Reyes agreed, gruffly.

Jesse chewed on his lower lip, chewed on the empty space where a cigar would normally be fast between his teeth. He cursed under his breath. He could really use one right about now. Leaning forward, Jesse clasped his hands together and set them on the desk. With a childish glint in his eye, he extended one of his hands toward the other man.

"Well, pleasure doin' business with ya."

* * *

"Welcome to your new home," The burly man said, haphazardly, as he directed McCree through the doorway. He moved a wall of lattice across the threshold, locking it behind him, before standing in front of it himself, muscular arms crossed against his equally muscular chest. McCree looked him up and down, took in the sight of his monstrous size; Good luck to whoever tries to fuck with him, he thought. Deciding that it was not the day to press his luck, McCree grumbled to himself as he decided to scope out his new surroundings – or, as the guard had put so eloquently, his new "home."

He stood in the entrance of an entire floor of white. Everything was white. The walls, the ceilings, the furniture and the uniforms were all spotless and devoid of colour, looking both simultaneously sterile and foreboding. From where he stood, Jesse could make out a few different areas. It was similar to a cafeteria that had been divided into small sections for lounging, watching television, playing poker and, of course, tables for eating. Everything one would need was on this singular floor; lining the walls were separate bunks for each pair of patients, and against the very back wall stood a tall station with a window and a counter-top. Jesse figured it was the nurse's station. There were no hallways, and the entire level was visible no matter where you stood. It made sense, he thought. He didn't need privacy, anyway. He had nothing to hide.

Jesse was fairly outgoing and, on the outside, could easily interject himself into any social circle if he wanted to. He was a smooth-talker, a lady killer and could strike up a conversation on the spot better than anyone he knew. When he decided to approach the poker table, with a grin and a "Howdy", he was surprised to find that nobody seemed interested in him.

"Uh, I said, howdy." Jesse repeated, and this time was met with looks from those seated at the table.

They sat silently, skeptically, waiting for Jesse to either cause them trouble or explain what he wanted.

"Name's McCree, Jesse McCree. New around here. This where all the fun's at?" He asked, sitting down in the only empty chair around the table.

The man to his immediate right gave a small shrug.

"Guess you could say that."

McCree inspected him. Silvery hair and tired eyes, this man was easily in his fifties, but by no means looked _old. _He simply looked... Gray. Jesse thought to himself that this man had seen some shit in his lifetime. He would eventually come to find out how right he was.

"Jack Morrison," the man stated, bluntly. "I'd ask how you landed yourself in a place like this, but people have been talking about you all morning."

"That so?" McCree said, somewhat of a cocky grin appearing on his face. This place was already stroking his ego.

Jack didn't respond, so McCree turned his attention to the other occupants of the table.

"And you guys? What's your story?"

One of the men shuffled his cards awkwardly. One looked McCree in the eye and simply didn't respond, but a third interjected himself into the conversation right away, speaking hurriedly as if McCree would wander off if he didn't talk fast enough.

"Oi! You can call me Junkrat. That's not my real name, but that's all you're gonna get, so deal with it. Why am I here? I'm a little.. You know.. Fucked up. But so what? Aren't we all?"

It took Jesse a minute to process. Once he did, he nodded slowly.

"That's why we're here, ain't it?"

Junkrat burst into maniacal laughter, and one of the previous quiet men set a hand atop of his shoulder, effectively settling him.

"Calm down," he said, "or you know what they'll do."

Junkrat imitated the sound of some kind of electrical buzzing, before erupting in laughter again. McCree couldn't help but chuckle a little.

"My name is Genji," the man continued. "I'd.. Rather not disclose much else. But you can join us if you'd like."

McCree nodded gratefully, took the deck of cards and began shuffling.

"Cigarettes as poker chips?" He observed, and Genji gave a small laugh.

"Yes. I don't smoke, but they do, and there's not much else to use around here."

"They let you guys use lighters..?"

Junkrat, again, interjected himself, lighting up a small Bic and giggling with glee. This was definitely not safe, but who was McCree to judge?

After dealing the cards, McCree leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto its hind legs. In addition to being a smooth-talking lady killer, McCree also had incredibly good luck. As a result, gambling was a vice of his, and if anyone needed a cigarette it was him, so he was not about to lose this game. Surely enough it wasn't long before he did win. With a grin he placed a cigarette between his lips, and – after Junkrat tossed him the Bic – lit up. He took a sharp inhale.

"Hey," he said, plumes of smoke leaving between his lips as he spoke, "Never got your name, big fella."

"Roadhog," Junkrat answered, "He doesn't really talk much."

And with that, the conversation died down yet again as McCree dealt out the next hand. Maybe, just maybe he could get used to this.


End file.
